


warm water

by felishy



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3974410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felishy/pseuds/felishy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once again, Silver has something everyone wants. A Vane x Eleanor modern crack AU fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> (This is just something to tide me over until Season 3 hits. It's the AU that nobody asked for and I must warn you the first few chapters will be just feeling out the settings and characters. I'm trying out the "show, don't tell" approach but please give me a yell if something is too vague and if there are not enough carrots on sticks. There might be smut, depending on how things go. Title from the song by BANKS.)
> 
> Eleanor’s pet project is the Nassau Newsletter, Charles wears boxers and Jack is entering a cocktail competition. Meanwhile, John enjoys fish and chips and Gates is bitter like his cheap coffee.

It is four o’clock on a frosty Friday afternoon and Charles Vane is pondering if he prefers a salted caramel brownie or a sticky date pudding. 

He shuffles along the line, perusing the brightly lit display case proffering a mouthwatering array of delectable pastries and desserts. The section of glass in front of the stack of brownies is muddied with the fingerprints of people pointing at it greedily as it’s clearly the crowd favorite even next to the enticing mixed berry pavlova and matcha panna cotta and boozy red velvet whoopie pie.

 _10 ways to ditch your vegan friend. Essential podcasts on single origin beans. Get the look: Retropunk prepster._ He may be a regular customer to Nassau but he never learned not to pick up that damned weekly newsletter the cafe published, but Jack liked it so Charles made a point to snag a copy occasionally to keep his colleague amiable. Charles may or may not read and enjoy it, but at least the newsletter kept his hands and mind occupied while he waited in line with what seemed like twenty college kids and assorted adults.

Both cashiers are open today as Fridays tend to be hectic, and each is manned by an overenthusiastic college kid in a black apron and a random slogan pin. The two girls in front of him grabbed their receipt off the counter and made their way to the collection window and the exceedingly bright, cheerful grin of - he quickly glanced at the name tag - Alfred greeted him.

“Hi. One salted caramel brownie and a black coffee, please.” He speaks mostly to Alfred, but when he mentions the brownie, he turns his head towards her, the woman standing in between this kid and the other kid manning the other cashier.

“Charles,” Eleanor’s cool gaze is as passive as always and she offers him the smallest of nods. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a neat bun but a few wisps of hair refuse to be tamed, falling around her temples. She hovers over the server, scrutinizing every move to ensure that the order is keyed in properly, although the kid doesn’t seem to be the brightest crayon in the box.

“Eleanor.” He maintains eye contact long enough to surmise her mood: slightly irritated with her trainee, slightly sleep deprived like he is, and hopefully slightly glad to see him.

“That will be seven dollars and fifty nine cents, sir.” He gives Alfred a ten and drops the change in the tip jar. Today, the jar bore a little cardboard sign and a guitar sticker - apparently he just contributed to Alfred’s fund to buy tickets to see some band he never heard of.

Charles takes his receipt, shoots another look at Eleanor who is too busy to return the glance, then moves along the line to wait for his coffee and cake.

Twenty minutes later, he feels something slide out of his back pocket and turns around swiftly. Eleanor slips into the barstool next to him, unfolding the Nassau Newsletter he nicked for Jack earlier, and studies the booklet. “You know, Rackham isn’t banned from here. He can drop by any day to get his free reading material.”

“I’m not sure if Jack thinks he’s banned or not,” he says, pushing away his empty coffee cup. “Besides, if he started coming around here, then I wouldn’t have an excuse to drop by.”

She nods sagely, a half smile gracing her face. “That makes complete sense.” And then she smirks because he knows she sees him reading it while waiting in line, almost every Friday afternoon. The Nassau Newsletter is her baby, her brainchild. She sold the idea to her father as part of her “content marketing” plans, stating that an educated consumer is a customer that the coffeeshop wanted, that it was cheaper than buying magazines anyway, that they could eventually sell advertising space, eventually. Charles remembers helping her trim pages with a utility knife and that was when the newsletter was just half a page, printed in the back office. These days it was six color pages and had a guest contributor.

“Have you heard?” He trails his fingers from her ear, beside her smile, along her jawline, then her stubborn chin.

“Unlike eyes, ears can’t be closed, Charles, so I happen hear many things. You’ll need to be more specific.” Still, she leans into his touch momentarily before his hand drops.

“My men report that there’s been some movement around Silver’s apartment.” He studies her face and manages to catch that slight eyebrow twitch. “Ah, you weren’t informed.”

“I…” A pause, because she knows better than to lie to his face. “The matter is closed on our side, so that’s not our primary focus, and hasn’t been for months.” A diplomatic response.

“Is that so?” Charles asks.

“Stop fucking around and just tell me.” Her face remains neutral as she waves to a regular customer, leaving with a paper bag of muffins. She glances at her watch even though there is still plenty of time left on her break and she is the fucking cafe manager so nobody can say anything if she takes a five hour break anyway.

He grins at that. Bloody ice princess. “He hasn’t been spotted, per se, but something or… someone triggered the sensor earlier this week.”

“And you’ll be looking into it.” It’s a statement, not a question, but he just nods in response, eyes fixed on her. “My new trainee is giving me enough grief as it is.”

“Better you than me,” he shoots back, amused. Charles is notoriously hands-off with his own newbies on both his legitimate front and illegal dealings so it is always interesting to observe Eleanor in her natural habitat, acting like a textbook example of nurturing mentor.

“Look, look,” she indicates at the trainee and he shifts his eyes towards the cashier counter. The girl is now struggling to keep the cash drawer closed but the tray keeps popping back out with a shameless “ding!”. She is also obviously avoiding looking at Eleanor, praying silently that the boss wasn’t witnessing the slight mishap.

Charles and Eleanor sit in companionable silence for a minute until she stands, adjusts the slightly lopsided knot of his necktie the best she could before smoothing it down his chest, and stacks his coffee cup on the dessert plate. “Working late tonight?”

“Hmm. We’re booked out tonight for some fiftieth wedding anniversary.” He shrugs because there is no telling with senior citizens - they might fall asleep and have to be wheeled away at 8pm or dance the funky chicken until midnight. “But come over after you close up.”

“Sure.” And she walks off, plates in hand, to resume her duties.

 

+++

Just past 10pm, her pocket vibrates with a message from Scott, confirming that their men are in place. She is in the midst of typing a quick reply but he sends another text shortly, and it’s just - _Vane’s watching too_.

Her one-worded response serves to acknowledge both his messages, then she slips her phone into her bag so that she can lock up. “Thanks for today, guys. Rest well, tomorrow’s another long day.” The few remaining staff who had stayed until closing scattered; some heading to their favorite bars and some going home, leaving her alone and staring across the street at the Jolly Ranger.

The faux-ship is “docked” along the esplanade and was quite controversial when it first opened, some time in Eleanor’s senior year of highschool. She vaguely remembers that some townsfolk actually submitted a petition to City Council stating that the structure was an eyesore and “attracted persons of ill-repute”. They are not mistaken on both counts.

At the brightly lit entrance, the hostess recognizes her but pointedly chooses not to interact as usual, and Eleanor walks along the hallway decked out with nautical gear (some are actual antiques but most are props) and into the main dining room. It is populated by geriatrics and interspersed with the occasional employee dressed up according to the restaurant’s theme. A one-legged man hobbles by and she squints momentarily, trying to identify if the man is some war veteran or a one-legged worker in character.

“Miss Guthrie.” Rackham calls out from his post behind the bar, and he is just balancing a strip of lemon peel onto the edge of a lowball glass, an unnecessary flourish but one she appreciates nonetheless.

“Rackham. Quite a wild party…” Her eyes roam the room until she spots the giant beglittered styrofoam words. “… Jackie and Wilson are having tonight.” She accepts the drink with a murmur of thanks and takes a grateful sip.

The median age tonight, excluding Jolly Ranger employees, is approximately seventy. She scans the crowd, seeking the captain who is probably somewhere in there, amongst the couples slow dancing to the upbeat music and drunk party guests, until she finds his dark head patiently nodding while someone speaks to him.

Then she thinks to herself that tonight will be a good night. They can deal with any new developments with Silver tomorrow.

“What do you think?” asks Rackham, adjusting his tricorn hat.

“About?” Eleanor wonders.

“The drink.”

She swirls the glass before taking a second sip. And another sip. “Rackham, this is just an Old Fashioned.”

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that,” he breathes. Sensing that she is not following, he continues. “I’m preparing to enter a mixology competition. Working on my classic cocktails now because I’m a little rusty - I’ve been making ridiculous rainbow drinks filled with ice for a little too long.”

“Right.” She raises the glass again to her lips, disinterested in making small talk with Charles’ second banana. At least he was ambitious.

When she sees that he is free from attention, she catches him just by the buffet area which is now closed. “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me, Captain Vane?”

He glances up at the sound of her voice. The warm LED lighting is meant to make food look more appetizing but doesn’t disguise his worn-out edges. Still, he seems more like himself now in full pirate regalia than he did this afternoon coming out of a meeting, stuffed into a button-down shirt and tie. “Both, clearly,” he responds, and there is a note in his voice makes her pulse hike up.

She sidles closer as he shuffles a few sheaves of paper and tucks his clipboard under his arm. Upon closer inspection, she notes that the feather quill he had been using to write is actually glued to a ballpoint pen and plucks it from his grasp. They are moving towards the service door now and Charles is extricating himself from the Bluetooth earpiece all Ranger managers use to communicate on duty. This little piece of technology is how Rackham mixed up a cocktail from the time she stepped through the main doors and made her way to the bar earlier.

Charles starts taking his costume apart even as they stride down the grey hallway towards his office and Eleanor gives in to the urge to pull him down for a kiss. His lips quirk into a faint smile, pressing against her own momentarily before he breaks away to usher her into his office.

There is nowhere to sit in the room, so she parks herself on a stack of old magazines while he disassembles his outfit, tossing each garment into a box destined for the laundry department and dropping the accessories into a tray on his desk. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, a hiss, because room is chilly and he’s down to his boxers, rummaging around for a change of clothes which he should have done before he decided to strip down.

Eleanor watches him because she’s not dead, but stays in her spot. Charles finally locates his bag and dons a few layers while watching her watch him. Smug bastard. In response, she shifts to lean against the window just to fuck with his head and remind him of that time. Years ago, they fucked in this room, once, the first time, pressed up against the windowsill, a blur of clashing teeth and fervent touches. A few urgent, compulsive minutes that set the tone for whatever it was between them. She knows it works because his eyes darken in spite of his cool exterior and his previously leisurely pace picks up.

They head out to the parking lot once Charles has gathered all the things he seems to carry around from his office to his home for no apparent reason. The handle of a tennis racket sticks out of his bag which is probably filled with his laptop, assorted reading materials, and god knows what else. To anyone watching them, they could have been anyone to each other, a man and a woman strolling casually alongside one another. In public, this is what it is like between them. Casual affection suit neither Eleanor nor Charles and it is a heady combination of desire, affection and respect that often drives them to become a tangled mass of limbs almost too close for comfort. That’s not always appropriate for mass consumption, so they keep things neutral for the public eye.

He turns on the heating and rubs her hands, chilled from the short walk from the Jolly Ranger to his car.

“So, awkward question time.” She stashes her purse in the back seat and pulls the seatbelt across her body.

“Oh?” Charles almost racks his brain for potential awkward topics between the two, but her casual tone tells him she is probably joking.

Eleanor places her hand on his lap as he pulls out of the parking lot. “Your place or mine?”

The question is so absurd that he lets a chuckle bubble out from between his lips and she joins him in laughter.

 

+++

On the other side of town, John Silver is noisily slurping down a large Coke. He hiccups, uncomfortably full after scarfing down a plateful of fish and chips, then dabs his mouth with the napkin. Gates draws in a breath to speak but a waitress interrupts, depositing a mug of coffee before him, and he is sorely tempted to wash away John’s matter-of-fact expression with a cupful of bitter, scalding liquid.

His mouth opens, then he shuts it, changing his mind about his choice of words, then finally, “You. Sold it.”

“Yep. Was in a tight spot and needed the cash, so…” John raises a hand to a passing server to ask for the check. “You know how things are.”

Gates knows where the vein is located in the neck, the one that he would press to cut off his blood circulation so that his victim can pass out with minimal struggle. Gates knows how stab a man so that the knife slips neatly between his ribs and puncture the lung. Gates forces himself to breathe deeply and wonders how he’ll explain this fuckup to James and Tom.

“And the identity of your buyer?” Gates impresses himself with how level, how even his voice sounds.

Another shrug. “We didn’t exchange pleasantries. That’s the amazing thing about the internet, you know?” He slurps the last of his drink noisily and the sound sets Gates’ teeth on edge.

Unbelievable. The man actually sold it. Of all the possibilities he had considered, this one seemed the least likely to happen. “Silver, I must admit, I never imagined that you could be so fucking stupid.”

John flinches and leans back slightly, just in case he is within striking distance of Gates’ spittle. He pulls out some cash and tucks it underneath the salt shaker before looking up at the two patrons seated on the table nearby. The bulges in their jackets are clearly gun-shaped, and suddenly he appreciates the meal a little more now that he knows Gates is going to cart him away unwillingly. Staying in town even just for a few hours was not a wise idea but a man had to eat and sleep somehow, right? It was only a matter of time until the various factions sniffed him out. Although, he muses, James Flint isn’t the worst of the lot.


	2. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn't clear enough in the first chapter, our favorite characters are still mixed up in their dirty businesses. Eleanor is the fence and the coffeeshop is a front. It's opposite the Jolly Ranger, a pirate-themed restaurant run by Vane, and it's also a front for his smuggling business. Jack Rackham assists him and is secretly a Vaneleanor shipper. 
> 
> I started this mostly as a writing exercise, because I'm awfully rusty at this (15 years since my last fanfic eek), and also as a way to explore a few ideas floating around in my head. I love the "hipster" idea which is why I this is a modern setting AU with a cute cafe and cute restaurant and later on, we'll see a cute bar. Also I've used a few ideas inspired by "what ifs" from the show.
> 
> Also, kretek = clove cigarettes from Indonesia.

Anne guns the engine again but it makes a faint, coughing sound before falling silent again. In the passenger seat, her grandmother hums an off-key rendition of “I Heard It Through The Grapevine”, seemingly oblivious to how the car is very stationary, as still as the night, and not taking them home. 

“Grandma, the car’s stalled. I’ll need to call the insurance company so we might be here a little longer, okay? Did you pee earlier?” Her grandmother just nods. She rummages around for a flashlight and gets out of the car, feeling the bite of the cold wind. The hood is still warm against her palm as she pops it open and surveyed her car’s guts, but she knows jackshit about cars and sighs to herself. The robot on the phone tells her that someone will be along in about thirty to sixty minutes and she mutters an insincere thanks before hanging up. 

The previously dramatic neon lighting of the Jolly Ranger flickers out one by one until Anne and her grandmother are left alone with the sodium yellow glow of the street lamps. She pulls out a blanket from her back seat and drapes it over her grandmother, then tries to sit patiently while waiting for help.

A sharp tapping on her window jolts her into alertness and she peers through the glass. It’s some dude with questionable facial hair, clutching a helmet under his arm. 

She cranks the window down just an inch to speak to him. “Yeah…?”

“Hi. Do you need help?” He keeps his distance but squints at her, nosy bastard. 

“We’re fine. Triple A is coming along in a bit,” she snaps back. 

“Okay.” He turns away briefly, then appears to change his mind. “Should I stay till help comes?”

Before she can respond, her grandmother blurts out, “I need to pee now.”

Anne twists back to the old lady. “Grandma, just hang on, okay? There are no toilets here.” 

The man’s voice floats through the window. “If you want, I can open up so you can use the ladies, turn on some heating while you wait.” He holds up a bunch of keys and indicates at the closed restaurant. 

Anne shoots him a suspicious look, but relents. He seems harmless enough and if he really did want to rob her, it was nothing she couldn’t handle herself. She hops out and he takes this as an affirmative.

He has the front main doors unlocked and open by the time she manages to guide her grandmother out of the car and across the tarmac. 

“Thank you darling.” Her grandmother pats him on the arm as she toddles off down the side hallway, which Anne assumed led to the toilets. The man nods, almost awkwardly. He is fumbling around a box of switches until he hits a button that triggers a low rumbling noise, then slams the lid. 

“That should keep us warm in the meantime. I’m Jack.” 

Anne detests small talk but sees it as a necessary evil. “Anne.”

The main foyer of the Jolly Ranger is a little sad without the normal bustle of restaurant patrons and a stark contrast from the first time Anne stepped in here less than an hour ago. She glances out of the porthole and she can just barely see her Toyota out there in the cold, alone. 

Jack cracks his neck and settles into one of the benches they keep in the foyer with a forlorn sigh but makes no further attempt at conversation, much to her relief. The next time they speak to each other, it’s only after someone has come to replace the battery in her car and he is helping her grandmother into the passenger seat. She pauses by the driver’s side door, palm against the handle and for the second time in the evening he turns away, but pauses when she calls out his name in her raspy voice.

There is a beat in the silence and Anne supposes she should have thought of something to say after his name, but he saves the moment. “See you around?” It’s clearly a question.

“Right.” Whatever. She just wants to go home already. 

But even as she drives off, she can’t resist glancing into the rearview mirror at his kneeling form, picking up his helmet from the ground before he straightens up and turns in her car’s general direction, and even know she knows he can’t possibly see her from this distance, her lips twitch. 

+++  
If it wasn’t for Eleanor, Charles would never get out of bed before a respectable hour on Saturday mornings, and for him, noon is still considered a respectable hour. She shakes him awake at the butt-crack of dawn and he doesn’t even complain anymore, just rolls out of bed and gets ready to drive her to work. The Jolly Ranger opens on Saturdays too, but the crew are only required to come in at 10am for the lunch shift, so he has a few hours to kill until then. Jack taps on his office door around nine-thirty before sauntering in.

“Rough night?” asks Charles. If possible, Jack looks even more sleep-deprived than he did yesterday but probably got more sleep than Charles did. 

Jack hums in agreement then slumps on a stack of pallets, yawning. “Guests didn’t leave too late. I haven’t seen the numbers yet but I don’t believe we made anything extra on top of the event fees.” It doesn’t matter because their primary source of income isn’t even the restaurant, but he supposes it’s nice to have on the books. “I closed up around midnight but only left around one-ish because someone had car trouble right out front.” 

Charles raises his eyes to meet Jack’s. “That’s unusually kind of you.”

When the strangely silent Jack just shifts nervously, Charles knows something is up, and continues. “Wasn’t a girl, was it? Fuck, Jack.” He almost wants to laugh.

“Anyway… anyway I have news about our old friend.” Jack is changing the topic and Charles lets him. 

“Silver?” 

“Max, actually.” Jack holds out his phone to Charles and lets him scroll through a few pictures. It’s definitely someone who looks like her, shrouded in a hoodie, buying cereal and milk from the grocery store. “Lars saw her last night, had enough sense to take a few sneaky shots. He tried to follow her but she managed to shake him off.”

“And has anyone actually seen Silver for real?” asks Charles. 

“No.” Jack quips, absently scratching his chin. “Not yet, anyway.” The motion detector they had set up in his old apartment was triggered the day before but the equipment may as well have malfunctioned. Technically the man himself was still in the wind. Either that or he had some brilliant disguise to somehow elude all the sets of eyes Charles had stationed all over town. 

Less than a year ago, Charles himself put Max on a bus bound for the border. In his mind’s eye he could still see her drained face punctuated by bloodshot eyes, her trembling hands clutching the strap of the bag slung over her shoulder. The farewell was wordless as they were nothing to each other, not even acquaintances, just barest dots on each others’ radars. Even though they lived in an uncertain world, he was quite sure Max was smart enough to stay the fuck away if she valued her own life, so her apparent return does not compute. Charles just sinks deeper into thought and falls silent. 

“Are you ever going to tell me what happened, Charles?” Jack’s voice is soft and he can tell that the other man is momentarily surprised by this direct question. He has a tendency to beat around the bush but at this point, after so long, Jack figured he had a right to know. 

When the question is only met with nothing, he nods slowly and gets to his feet. “We’ll just keep watching then. Crew briefing is in ten minutes.”

Charles grunts in reply. With Jack gone, he briefly considers calling Eleanor then hastily changes his mind - a few times, even, before the lunch shift starts. 

Despite the hazy delineations when it comes to the situation between Charles and Eleanor, both remained relatively transparent with one another, which was why he took it upon himself to give her a heads-up on the possibility that Silver might be in town. This doesn’t mean they are on the same side, nor are their respective businesses amicable enough to share resources, but small tip-offs were within the rules. 

But this involves Max, and Charles knows there is far too much history there for him to disregard the need to tread lightly. 

When he sends her a text, asking to meet, she doesn’t ask questions and he is told to wait upstairs in her office above the coffee shop later that afternoon. Scott lets him in and leads him up the staircase, silently disapproving, and notifies him that Eleanor will be along in a minute so he takes a seat and gets comfortable.

She enters the room and her eyes are wondering, yet wary. Her curiosity is piqued and she speculates if the visit is personal or professional, although sometimes between the two of them, it’s difficult to tell. Underneath it all is a current of concern. Personal matters can be communicated through the phone and they rarely needed to speak about business, leaving that to their respective managers and lieutenants. It had to be troubling for something urgent enough to interrupt yet another business day within twenty-four hours.

Her high-backed office chair is upholstered in oxblood leather and it’s the one ostentatious piece of furniture in her otherwise minimalistic office. In her hand is a tiny paper cup, an espresso shot, and she places it before him. She takes her seat, then leans slightly to speak around him. “Thank you, Scott.” Scott leaves the room reluctantly with a last glance at Charles. 

Once the door clicks shut behind him, Charles gets to the point. “Didn’t want to drop a second bomb so quickly, but Max has been spotted in town.”

Eleanor’s face doesn’t change. “You’re sure?”

“We have pictures and it’s either her or her identical twin.” He sips the strong espresso, a medium roast, mildly bitter boost to the palate. 

She meets his gaze and it’s soft, questioning and open. “And considering Silver’s reemergence… After all this time, the box was here all along?”

He simply nods as she comes to the same conclusion he did, then asks, “Are you… will you be pursuing this?”

She lets out a single laugh, sans humor. “I haven’t decided. Will you?”

Charles gets out of his seat, crosses over to her side and leans his hip against her desk. Aside from a single stack of files, it’s spotless. “I haven’t decided yet either.”

She is looking down, her stare fixed on her closed laptop. He slides his hand over her smaller one and she raises her eyes to meet his. “I have to tell you something,” he says, and her clear eyes flicker briefly, because they are two of a kind and instantly imagine the worst when words like that are spoken. “About Max. I was the one who arranged it. Her disappearance.” 

“I know.”

“What?” Charles frowns, not understanding.

“Don’t be mad at him, but Rackham told me.” Her fingers curled against his palm, grasping his hand tightly. “I’ve known this for some time.”

“Why aren’t you upset at me for meddling?” Not that he isn’t secretly relieved that she didn’t flip out, but it just wasn’t the reaction he expected. 

She shrugs because she did fly into a rage initially when Jack first told her. And then she rises to her feet to bring his warm mouth down on hers, hands against his stubbled jaw, and swallows his responding groan of bliss. The acidic, earthy notes in the single origin Costa Rican “La Magnolia” she brought for him still lingers on his lips. Through the languorous movement of her lips, she tells him she understands - he helped Max escape a desolate fate when Eleanor’s hand were tied.

His hips grind insistently against hers and instinctively, her hands slide down his shoulders, around his waist as his eager lips shift, making their way to the spot on her neck that melts away her resolve. It is she who turns away first, almost against her own will. They are both breathing hard and Charles steps away, putting a foot of distance between them to cool off. 

And Eleanor still wants him, she craves him unlike any other, more so now that each of them have a decision to make that may put them at odds again. He gives her an unreadable look, one that used to unnerve her because it seemed like he understood the innermost workings of her mind, and that is almost too close for comfort. 

+++  
She finds Scott in the storeroom, on the phone and trying to find a quiet spot so he can hear the other person on the line, but when she mouths “I need to speak to you now,” he quickly finishes the conversation and finds her back in the office.

“Nothing on Silver?” she asks. 

“No updates, but I should check in again with them shortly. What’s this about, Eleanor?” His voice carries a note of concern. As much as he disapproves of Vane, she never came out of conversations with him looking as rattled as she did now. 

“Apparently Vane’s men have seen Max around. If she’s willing to risk her life to come back to the dropsite, it can only mean that the box never left the island.”

Scott’s mind whirls. “Have you spoken to Flint yet?” 

She hesitates before responding. “Not yet. But Scott, things are vastly different from how they were a year ago. I don’t have Max on my side anymore, and I have zero leverage in this matter.” 

“The real question is, are you compelled to hunt down the box as a matter of pride, because it slipped out from under your nose the last time, or because you and this organization, actually needs the funds from its sale?” Even while he speaks, Scott knows the answer to this but he lays it out plainly for Eleanor to let her come to her own decision, as is his role with the company. 

She just exhales through her teeth and reaches for the phone. But Flint refuses to answer and she aggressively ends the call before it goes to voicemail. 

+++  
Since Wednesdays tend to be slow at the Jolly Ranger, Charles decides to join Jack down at the docks, to show face to McCarthy and Rodriguez and make sure they’re still in line. The cargo today is mostly electronics, with one crate of luxury motorcycle parts somewhere in the pile. The operation goes smoothly and Rodriguez tucks pack of _kreteks_ (Djarum Blacks, his favorite) into Charles’ jacket once the trucks are loaded. 

Jack is getting an earful from McCarthy about the grey markets in Havana and Jack, the consummate professional, hmms and ahhs at the perfect moments until Charles comes to save him. When the necessary checks are done, their associates part ways and the both of them ride back to the warehouse in Charles’ car. 

“It was quite nerve-wracking, but I did it.” Jack almost buzzes with excitement, dark eyes glinting. 

“You told Eleanor that we whisked Max away.” Charles deadpans, unamused. 

Jack shuts his mouth and shifts in his seat, all humor gone. “Well, that wasn’t what I was talking about, but is she particularly angry?” 

Charles snorts. “You’re lucky she isn’t. I just wish you told me earlier.”

“She was… livid when I told her and I figured a little morsel of information to keep the lady across the street happy wasn’t a big deal. But I s’pose things turned out alright, things worked out.” He is half talking to himself. Jack often grew tired of the delicate, prowling game Eleanor and Charles played with each other and couldn’t resist nudging them along sometimes. “Right! So I was saying, I got a callback about my entry for the Arcana cocktail competition. Preliminaries are this Saturday at the Manta. Will you come?”

“I should be available. How do they judge these things without getting dead drunk, anyway?” 

“I’d presume the judges have livers of titanium cultivated over many years of experience. Or perhaps they spit out each mouthful instead of swallowing.” Jack is simultaneously glad and nervous about Charles agreeing to be there, not because of the competition but the Manta’s owner was not on good terms with them. “Feel free to invite Miss Guthrie,” he says innocently. 

“We’ll see.” 

+++  
As a last resort, Eleanor pays a visit to Gates. He lives on the south side, nesting in a one-bedroom unit in a nondescript apartment complex “with views of the ocean”, as real estate ads would say. He answers the door in an apron and she has to glance at her watch to confirm that it’s past 10pm, but maybe Gates keeps odd hours.

“Eleanor, why didn’t you call?” He stirs a pot of pasta so the noodles don’t stick, then offers her some tea.

“Figured I’d get a quicker answer this way. I’ll be out of your hair in no time.” Eleanor sits gingerly on the barstool. “Flint isn’t responding so I thought I’d deal with the adult instead.” They both smile at the lighthearted jab at their mutual acquaintance. 

This isn’t the first time she has dropped in, unannounced, at Gates’ apartment. Ever since she and Flint fell out, he had been doing most of the dealings. “How can I help you?” 

“The box that supposedly contains, or contained Nassau’s most sought after flash drive.” Eleanor’s eyes trains on Gates, whom she knows has not much control over his face. 

“Ah.” Suddenly he is busy, rummaging through cupboards and finally pulling out a colander, because his pasta is al dente. 

“I hate running around in circles, Gates. Just tell me what you can.” Her tone is curt and businesslike.

“We picked up John Silver. That is all that I can say.” Eleanor waits for a mention about the flash drive but Gates just dumps his pasta over the colander, watching the steam rise, and avoiding her gaze. 

“And? Does he have it?”

Eleanor doesn’t claim to know Gates that well, but they’ve worked together for long enough that she can read him well. The way he casts his eyes around the room before saying “Um,” says all she needs to know.

+++  
“Oooh, look who’s here?”

“Ugh, I knew it was a good idea to work the late shift tonight.” 

“Yeah, totally worth it, right?”

Eleanor looks up from where she’s hunched over the table, going through the month’s numbers, at the two gossiping baristas. She clears her throat loudly until they both glance up, gives them a cold stare and they rip their attention away from the man-candy, scuttling away to resume their duties. 

Charles is surveying the dessert display as usual but nothing seems to tickle his fancy, that is until he sees Eleanor. 

“Welcome, Captain Vane.” Their gazes connect and slow smile spreads across her face. 

“Madam Guthrie,” he replies in turn, pseudo-formally. “Busy night?” He asks even though it is clear the cafe is just as quiet as the Jolly Ranger, with only two tables occupied on what was traditionally a busy night on the boardwalk. The Sharks were playing the Gators in the final game of the season tonight and most people were either at the game or watching it at a sports bar. 

She rolls her eyes, then closes the folder and stashes it in a drawer to continue another day. “We are swamped here.”

“That’s too bad. I wanted to invite you out for a drive, but since you have your hands full…” He taunts, taking a few steps towards the exit.

She relents, tempted by the prospect of spending time with him. “I can make an exception for my neighbor. Won’t be a minute.” Eleanor is playing with matches, using the word “neighbor” to describe him, and Charles parks himself in an armchair while Eleanor gets ready to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things I regret:  
> \- shipping anything  
> \- trying to write in present tense instead of past  
> \- attempting to write anything  
> \- attempting a plot

**Author's Note:**

> Also, find me on tumblr if you want - hitescape. Thank you for reading!


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